“Everything’s insured, of course,” she said. “But that’s a classic Rörstrand special edition.”
Wallander put the cup and saucer gingerly down by the side of the printout on the oak parquet floor, and started again.
“I’ll express myself very precisely,” he said. “That same evening, October 11, barely an hour after Mr. Torstensson had been here, he died in a car accident.”
“We sent flowers to the funeral,” she said. “One of my colleagues attended the service.”
“But not Alfred Harderberg, of course?”
“My employer avoids appearing in public whenever possible.”
“I’ve gathered that,” Wallander said. “But the fact is that we have reason to believe this wasn’t in fact a car accident. Many things suggest Mr. Torstensson was murdered. And to make matters worse, his son was shot dead in his office a few weeks later. Perhaps you sent flowers to his funeral as well?”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“We only dealt with Gustaf Torstensson,” she said.
Wallander nodded, and went on: “Now you know why I’ve come. And you still haven’t told me how many secretaries work here.”
“And you haven’t understood that it depends on how you look at it, Inspector Wallander,” she said.
“I’m all ears.”
“Here at Farnholm Castle there are three secretaries,” she said. “Then there are two more who accompany him on his travels. In addition Dr. Harderberg has secretaries stationed in various places around the world. The number can vary, but it’s rarely fewer than six.”
“I count eleven,” Wallander said.
She agreed.
“You referred to your employer as Dr. Harderberg,” Wallander said.
“He has several honorary doctorates,” she said. “You can have a list if you’d like one.”
“Yes, I would,” Wallander said. “I also want an overview of Dr. Harderberg’s business empire. But you can let me have that later. What I want now is to know what happened that evening when Gustaf Torstensson was here for the last time. Which one of all those secretaries can tell me that?”
“I was on duty that evening.”
Wallander thought for a moment. “That’s why you’re here,” he said. “That’s why you are receiving me. But what would have happened if this had been your day off? You couldn’t know the police were going to come this day of all days.”
“Of course not.”
Even as he spoke Wallander realized he was wrong. And he also realized how it would be possible for people at Farnholm Castle to know. The thought worried him. He had to force himself to concentrate before continuing.
“What happened that evening?” he asked.
“Mr. Torstensson arrived shortly after 7 P.M. He had a private conversation with Dr. Harderberg and some of his closest colleagues, lasting an hour. Then he had a cup of tea. He left Farnholm at exactly 8:14.”
“What did they talk about that evening?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“But you said a moment ago that you were on duty.”
“It was a conversation with no secretary present. No notes were taken.”
“Who were the colleagues?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said Mr. Torstensson had a private conversation with Dr. Harderberg and some of his closest colleagues.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Because you’re not allowed to?”
“Because I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“Who those colleagues were. I’d never seen them before. They had arrived that day and they left the following day.”
Wallander didn’t know what to ask next. It seemed as if all the answers he was getting were peripheral. He decided to approach matters from a different angle.
“You said a moment ago that Dr. Harderberg has eleven secretaries. May I ask how many lawyers he has?”
“Presumably at least as many.”
“But you’re not allowed to say exactly how many?”
“I don’t know.”
Wallander nodded. He could see he was entering another cul-de-sac.
“How long had Mr. Torstensson been working for Dr. Harderberg?”
“Ever since he bought Farnholm Castle and made it his headquarters. About five years ago.”
“Mr. Torstensson worked as a lawyer in Ystad all his life,” said Wallander. “All of a sudden he’s considered to be qualified to advise on international business matters. Doesn’t that seem a little remarkable?”
“That’s something you’ll have to ask Dr. Harderberg.”
Wallander closed his notebook. “Absolutely right,” he said. “I’d like you to send him a message, whether he’s in Geneva or Dubai or wherever, and inform him that Inspector Wallander wants to talk to him as soon as possible. The day he gets back here, in other words.”
He stood up and gingerly placed the cup and saucer on the desk.
“The Ystad police don’t have eleven secretaries,” he said, “but our receptionists are pretty efficient. You can leave a message with them saying when he can see me.”
He followed her out into the hall. Next to the front door, lying on a marble table, was a thick leather-bound file.
“Here’s the overview of Dr. Harderberg’s business affairs you asked for,” Anita Karlén said.
Somebody’s been listening in, Wallander thought. Somebody’s overheard the whole of our conversation. Presumably a transcript is already on its way to Harderberg, wherever he is. In case he’s interested. Which I doubt.
“Don’t forget to stress that it’s urgent,” Wallander said. This time Anita Karlén did shake hands with him.
Wallander glanced at the big unlit staircase, but the shadows had gone.
The sky had cleared. He got into his car. Anita Karlén was standing on the steps, her hair fluttering in the wind. As he drove off he could see her in his rearview mirror, still on the steps, watching him. This time he didn’t need to stop at the gates, which started opening as he approached. There was no sign of Kurt Ström. The gates closed automatically behind him, and he drove slowly back to Ystad. It was only three days since he’d suddenly made up his mind to return to work, but even so, it seemed like a long time. As if he were on his way somewhere while his memories raced away at an enormous pace in an entirely different direction.
Just after the turnoff onto the main highway there was a dead hare lying on the road. He drove around it, and thought how he was still no nearer to finding out what had happened to Gustaf Torstensson or his son. It seemed to him highly unlikely that he would find any connection between the dead lawyers and the people in the castle behind that double fence. Nevertheless, he would go through that leather file before the day was over, and try to get some idea of Alfred Harderberg’s business empire.
His car phone started ringing. He picked it up and heard Svedberg’s voice.
“Svedberg here,” he shouted. “Where are you?”
“Forty minutes from Ystad.”
“Martinsson said you were going to Farnholm Castle.”
“I’ve been there. Drew a blank.”
The conversation was cut off by interference for a few seconds. Then Svedberg’s voice returned.
“Berta Dunér phoned and asked for you,” he said. “She was anxious for you to get in touch with her right away.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say.”
“If you give me her number I’ll give her a call.”
“It would be better if you just drove there. She seemed very insistent.”
Wallander glanced at the clock. It was 8:45 already.
“What happened at the meeting this morning?”
“Nothing special.”
“I’ll drive straight to her place when I get back to Ystad,” Wallander said.
“Do that,” Svedberg said.
Wallander wondered what Mrs. Dunér wanted that was so urgent. H
e could feel himself growing tense, and increased his speed.
At 9:25 he parked haphazardly across the street from the pink house. He hurried across the street and rang her bell. The moment she opened the door he could see something was amiss. She looked to be in shock.
“You’ve been asking for me,” he said.
She nodded and ushered him in. He was about to take off his shoes when she grasped his arm and dragged him into the living room that overlooked her little garden. She pointed.
“Somebody’s been there during the night,” she said.
She looked really frightened. Something of her anxiety rubbed off on Wallander. He stood at the French windows and examined the lawn: the flower beds, dug over in preparation for winter, the climbers on the whitewashed wall between Mrs. Dunér’s garden and her neighbor’s.
“I can’t see anything,” he said.
She had been hovering in the background, as if she didn’t dare go up to the window. Wallander began to wonder if she was suffering from some temporary mental aberration as a result of the violent events that had shaken her life to its foundations.
She came to his side, and pointed. “There,” she said. “There. Somebody’s been there during the night, digging.”
“Did you see anybody?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“No. But I know somebody’s been there during the night.”
Wallander tried to follow where she was pointing. He had the vague impression he could see that a tiny piece of lawn had been disturbed.
“It could be a cat,” he said. “Or a mole. Even a mouse.”
She shook her head. “No, somebody’s been there during the night,” she said.
Wallander opened the French windows and stepped out into the garden. He walked onto the lawn. From close up it looked as if a square of turf had been lifted and then put back. He squatted down and ran his hand over the grass. His fingers touched something hard, something plastic or iron, a little spike sticking up out of the turf. Very carefully, he bent back the blades of grass. A grayish-brown object was buried just under the surface.
Wallander stiffened. He pulled his hand back and rose gingerly to his feet. For a moment he thought he had gone insane—it could not possibly be what he thought it was. That was too unlikely, too far-fetched even to be considered.
He walked backward to the French windows, placing his feet exactly where they had been before. When he got to the house he turned around. He still could not believe it was true.
“What is it?” she said.
“Please go and fetch the telephone directory,” Wallander said, and he could hear his voice was tense.
“What do you want the directory for?”
“Do as I say,” he said.
She went out into the hall and returned with the directory for Ystad and District. Wallander took it and weighed it in his hand.
“Please go into the kitchen and stay there,” he said.
She did as she was told.
Wallander tried to tell himself that this was all in his imagination. If there had been the slightest possibility that the improbability was in fact true, he should have reacted quite differently. He went in through the French windows and positioned himself as far back in the room as he could. Then he aimed the phone book and threw it at the spike sticking up out of the grass.
The explosion deafened him.
Afterward, he was amazed to find the windows hadn’t shattered.
He eyed the crater that had formed in the lawn. Then he hurried into the kitchen where he’d heard Mrs. Dunér scream. She was standing as if petrified in the middle of the floor, her hands over her ears. He took hold of her and sat her down on one of the kitchen chairs.
“There’s no danger,” he said. “I’ll be back in a second. I must just make a phone call.”
He dialed the number to the police station. To his relief it was Ebba who answered.
“Kurt here,” he said. “I have to speak to Martinsson or Svedberg. Failing that, anybody will do.”
Ebba recognized his voice, he could tell. That’s why she asked no questions, just did as he had asked. She had grasped how serious he was.
Martinsson answered.
“It’s Kurt,” Wallander said. “Any minute now the police are going to get an emergency call about a violent explosion behind the Continental Hotel. Make sure no emergency services are called. I don’t want fire engines and ambulances rushing here. Get here quick and bring somebody with you. I’m with Mrs. Dunér, Torstensson’s secretary. The address is Stickgatan 26. A pink house.”
“What’s happened?” Martinsson said.
“You’ll see when you get here,” Wallander said. “You wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain.”
“Try me,” Martinsson said.
“If I told you that somebody had planted a land mine in Mrs. Dunér’s back garden, would you believe me?”
“No,” Martinsson said.
“I didn’t think so.”
Wallander hung up and went back to the French windows.
The crater was still there.
6
Kurt Wallander would remember Wednesday, November 3, as a day that he was never entirely convinced had existed. How could he ever have dreamed that he would one day come across a land mine buried in a garden in the middle of Ystad?
When Martinsson arrived at Mrs. Dunér’s house with Höglund, Wallander still had difficulty in believing it was a mine that had exploded. Martinsson, however, had greater faith in what Wallander had said on the telephone, and on the way out from the police station he had already sent a message to Nyberg, their technical expert. He arrived at the pink house only a few minutes after Martinsson and Höglund had stood transfixed before the crater in the lawn. Since they couldn’t be sure there weren’t any more mines hidden in the grass, they all stayed close to the house wall. On her own initiative Höglund then went to the kitchen with Mrs. Dunér, who was a little calmer by now, to question her.
“What’s going on?” Martinsson said, indignantly.
“Are you asking me?” Wallander replied. “I have no idea.”
No more was said. They continued contemplating the hole in the ground. Shortly afterward the forensic team arrived, led by the skillful but irritable Sven Nyberg. He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of Wallander.
“What are you doing here?” he said, making Wallander feel that he had committed an indecent act by returning to duty.
“Working,” he said, going on the defensive.
“I thought you were quitting?”
“So did I. But then I realized you couldn’t manage without me.”
Nyberg was about to say something, but Wallander raised a hand to stop him.
“More important is this hole in the lawn,” he said, remembering that Nyberg had served several times with Swedish troops for the UN. “From your years of duty in Cyprus and the Middle East you can verify if this was in fact a mine. But first can you tell us if there are any more of them?”
“I’m not a dog,” Nyberg said, squatting by the house wall. Wallander told him about the spike he had found with his fingers, and then the telephone book that had triggered the explosion.
Nyberg nodded. “There are very few explosive substances or compounds that are detonated on impact—other than mines. That’s the whole point of them. People or vehicles are supposed to be blown up if they put a foot or a wheel on a landmine. For an antipersonnel mine a pressure of just a few kilos can be enough—a kid’s foot or a telephone directory will do. If the target’s a vehicle, two hundred kilos would be the pressure required.” He stood up and looked questioningly at Wallander and Martinsson. “But what the hell kind of person lays a mine in somebody’s garden? They had better be caught immediately.”
“You’re quite certain it was a mine?” Wallander said.
“I’m never certain of anything,” Nyberg said, “but I’ll send for a mine detector from the regiment. Until i
t gets here nobody should set foot in this garden.”
While they were waiting for the mine detector Martinsson made a few calls. Wallander sat on the sofa, trying to come to terms with what had happened. From the kitchen he could hear Höglund patiently asking Mrs. Dunér questions that Mrs. Dunér answered even more slowly.
Two dead lawyers, Wallander thought. Then somebody lays a mine in their secretary’s garden. Even if everything else is still obscure, we can be sure of one thing: the solution must lie somewhere in the activities of the law firm. It’s hardly credible anymore that the private or social lives of these three individuals is relevant.
Wallander was interrupted in his train of thought by Martinsson finishing his calls.
“Björk asked me if I’d lost my senses,” he said, making a face. “I must admit that I wasn’t quite sure at first how I should answer that. He says it’s inconceivable that it could be a land mine. Even so, he wants one of us to update him as soon as possible.”
“When we’ve got something to say,” Wallander said. “Where’s Nyberg disappeared to?”
“He’s gone to the barracks himself to fetch a mine detector,” Martinsson said.
Wallander looked at the time. 10:15. He thought about his visit to Farnholm Castle, but didn’t really know what conclusion to draw.
Martinsson was standing in the doorway, studying the hole in the lawn. “There was an incident about twenty years ago in Söderhamn,” he said. “In the municipal law courts. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely,” Wallander said.
“There was an old farmer who’d spent countless years bringing just as countless a series of lawsuits against his neighbors, his relatives, anybody and everybody. It ended up by becoming a clinical obsession that nobody diagnosed as such soon enough. He thought he was being persecuted by all his imagined opponents, not least by the judge and his own lawyer. In the end he snapped. He drew a revolver in the middle of a case and shot both the judge and his lawyer. When the police tried to get into his house afterward, it turned out he’d booby-trapped all the doors and windows. It was sheer luck that nobody was injured once the fireworks started.”
Wallander remembered the incident.
“A prosecutor in Stockholm has his house blown up,” Martinsson went on. “Lawyers are threatened and attacked. Not to mention police officers.”